


Aftermath

by RussianWitch



Series: Kinktober2018 [5]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Dominance, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 02:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16188476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: Day 4 Kinktober 2018Sometimes coming home takes a little effort.





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> not betead 
> 
> A/N: written and spellchecked off the cuff, so...it's American English. May bet around to editing eventually.
> 
> Fic was inspired by the art of the very talented cherrygoldlove.

The door closing behind them isn't enough.  
James still feels like his skin is too tight, all his muscles knotted up.  
Sometimes, coming home isn't enough to take away the tension, to make him stand down.  
Behind him, Q takes his coat off and puts it away without a word leaving James swaying in the middle of the narrow hallway clenching his fists in indecision.  
Q's nails tapping on a small box that lives on a shelf in a discreet corner of the hallway draw his attention. Long, slender, talented fingers tapping out a staccato beat, an offer and a question at once.  
Just the offer has something uncoiling in James' gut, paranoia curbing into anticipation as his mouth goes dry.  
"Yes!" He hisses, possibly a demand, maybe, a plea.  
Q could demand more but doesn't. He opens the box instead and takes out the rings they keep there, brushed steel, solid and comfortably wide, one for each finger.  
Q puts them on one after another and with each one, James feels his body growing heavier, tension starting to flow away.  
Q's be-ringed hand caresses his cheek, his thumb rubs his lips and pushes in, to stroke his tongue an let James taste the metal.  
"Go undress, then take a shower," Q tells him, removing his hand, "when you are clean, wait in the bedroom."  
The lack of contact feels like a tether has been cut, but the orders make it bearable.  
Orders make it easy not to think.  
He does as he's told on autopilot, puts away his suit and laundry, washes away the outside world, the smell of gunpowder and the mark's cologne, scrubs until his skin turns pink and no trace of the mission remains.  
There is a rug at the foot of the bed, the shag soft under his knees.  
The room is dim, the blackout curtains drawn and light coming only from the hallway lamp.  
James can hear Q move around. He strains his hearing to narrow down his exact location—then remembers he'd been ordered to wait precisely where he is. Ignoring the sounds, James pulls back, concentrating on the rug, on the way the air touches his skin, the stray drop of water dribbling down his back and how the darkness feels a warm blanket.  
"Good," Q says, his hand coming to rest on the back of James' neck, squeezing lightly. He runs his hand up, ruffling James' hair, petting him like a favored pet until James relaxes into the motion.  
"Get up," Q keeps his hand on James' skin as he rises, knees creaking, reminding him of his age.  
Fatigue crashes into him, threatens to drown him for a moment, but Q is there to catch him, strong and solid against his side.  
"Color?" Q demands.  
"I'm fine," James growls, pushing Q away and straightening up.  
"That's not what I asked," his lover points out.  
He bites back another comment, the urge to snap, to stop everything, and go find a bottle of vodka to drown the tension.  
"Green!" He hisses with a glare over his shoulder, ignoring the disappointment that the answer doesn't earn him a reward.  
"Stand in front of the mirror, arm's length from it," Q says instead.  
James takes his time following the order.  
He hates the mirror, as Q knows, hates looking himself in the eyes when it's not necessary.  
"Brace." The sturdy wooden frame is warm under his hands, smooth, almost slick and solid. He looks down to the bottom of the frame and his bare feet, avoiding looking himself in the eyes.  
Q is warm against his back, a comforting weight that makes it easier to bend and yield. His hands roam James' body petting and stroking, probably looking for wounds and bruises James hasn't bothered to mention.  
Q's lips brush the back of his neck, then Q pulls away stroking and rubbing down James' right leg and up the left.  
He feels like he is being marked, every inch of skin Q touches is getting branded with his scent and body heat.  
Q keeps on until James realizes his skin doesn't feel as tight any more, air leaves his lungs in a rush, and he almost falls against the mirror's glass.  
"Good," Q praises trailing kisses across James' shoulders, his hand curling around the back of James' head, making him look up.  
In the mirror, he marks the scars marring his hide the traces of decay setting in, age catching up with him—to stall staring at the thick scarring along his collarbone.  
"James—," Q warns, digging his nails lightly into James' skin.  
He shakes his head mutely, the mission still in the foreground of his mind, blood on the cobblestones, blood on his hands.  
The sting of Q's hand connecting with his arse pulls James from his memories, almost has his looking up. It is not pain, exactly, even with the rings adding some weight, more of a sensation that leaves heat blooming on his skin.  
The hand returns to the back of his head, combing through the bristles at the nape.  
James shakes his head mutely, mutinous, helpless to do as commanded.  
Another strike lands on his ass, and another, a steady, precise rhythm that heats his skin and echoes through his body.  
It feels like Q can keep going all night, can keep going until James has no choice but to yield.  
The average soldier can outlast torture for three days, a trained one for about a week. Not that he is being tortured, the pain blooming in his arse pales in comparison to getting shot off a bridge or any of the dozen things he's lived through in the field.  
The *disappointment* permeating the room is what has him giving in eventually.  
After the world has narrowed down to the bedroom, to the solid frame of the mirror under his hands, the misty patterns, his breath makes on the cold glass and Q's steady hand striking his ass over and over again.  
He gives in with a wet gasp, blinking moisture out of his eyes, jerking his head up like a puppet on a string.  
Grief, rage and an infinite pool of fatigue stare back at him, loneliness and fear that soon, so very soon he won't be able to pass muster and then...  
"No!" Q snaps, warm and heavy against his back once again.  
The corduroy of his trousers scratchy and rough against James' sore arse.  
"You're mine!" The claim accompanied by a hard embrace, hands in his hair along with lips and teeth against his throat. "I need you, *here* with me! No one and *nothing* else can have you!" Q declares harshly against his shoulder. "So, you better bloody well come back to me! Now!"  
The claim lets the last of the tension flow away.  
James' body feels lighter.  
Even the fatigue seems to lessen as he leans back against the slender body behind him.  
"Crawl back if I have to," he mumbles, cursing himself at once for letting the sentiment slip out.  
Q chuckles, maneuvering him around for a kiss.  
A slow re-exploration of familiar territory, just as grounding as the sight of the rings, and the orders that go along with them.  
James hisses when his arse comes into contact with the cold glass, huffing at Q's amusement and moaning when Q's hand closes around his cock stroking and teasing until he's squirming.  
Sore arse be damned, he fucks into the be-ringed hand, relishing the edges of the rings catching against the tender skin, reveling in the ownership their signify.  
Coming is almost a distraction, by then James is absorbed by watching Q's pleasure in handling James' body, the way his lover bites his lip in concentration and how his eyes go dark behind his glasses in arousal.  
James' knees go weak, the last of his reserves disappearing, Q's strength getting him to the bed.  
He rolls onto his back, cursing and getting back on his side, glaring when Q laughs and gets lotion from the bedside table. James shifts, curling towards his lover, hooking his fingers in the waits of Q's trousers only to have his hand batted away.  
"I'm not having you fall asleep halfway through," Q tells him, pressing a finger to James' lips when he tries to protest. "We both have four days off, you can fuck my brains out later," Q tells him, ignoring James nipping at the pad of his finger in affront.  
The lotion feels good on his skin, Q's hands on his skin lulling him to sleep. With the last of his strength, James drags Q onto the bed pinning him to the mattress.  
"James! Some of us—," Q starts to protest.  
"Please, stay," he murmurs against Q's throat, and the younger man subsides with a put-upon sigh, throwing a leg around James' hip and dropping his glasses on the bedside table.


End file.
